entrance:
for Beltane
the crocus has come and gone, the plum
trees have dropped petals and unfurled
their purple leaves, the ducks nest
undisturbed in the neighbor's yard;
the lake has warmed to the approach of May
and calmed under eastern winds.
behind the glow of their keyboards and mannequins
the word masturbation is misspelled with
frequency alarming but not unexpected.
They're dressing a green man somewhere in Iowa
for the holiday and talking about the year
it snowed, four years and five babies ago
and the spring has finally broken winter
ice, spinning all the winged things free
and whirling the estranged from their solid
foundations to dreams of the things that would
be theirs again, someday--
and the chanting droning, early-mating cicadas
laying Beltane eve's restless sleep
like dark steps on expectant land.